How I miss
the pot-holed path
that one that never ends.
The one that blocked us
as we walked, secured
by great green fence.
The tumultuous crash of the Clyde;
our halter
as people roar past us
in manic motors.
A wicked wait brimming with tribal tension;
an unheard prayer for divine intervention,
the distractions we made to stay like this,
the noise we made to refute our lips,
a fear of another chance to miss,
such horrors hold from cupids kiss.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 10:03 PM UTC
How I miss
the pot-holed path
that one that never ends.
The one that blocked us
as we walked, secured
by great green fence.
The tumultuous crash of the Clyde;
our halter
as people roar past us
in manic motors.
A wicked wait brimming with tribal tension;
an unheard prayer for divine intervention,
the distractions we made to stay like this,
the noise we made to refute our lips,
a fear of another chance to miss,
such horrors hold from cupids kiss.